Life Is Really Not About Reading Beautiful Poetry

Occasionally I open the junk file of one of my email addresses, and read the stuff sent there.  The range of subjects is small: penis enlargement offers, treatments for male impotence, and notices of unexpected funds, legacies, etc., usually in some country in Africa to which unaccountably enough I am heir or legatee or whatever.  In its own way it reminds me of the drive up the east coast of Florida and into Georgia and the Carolinas, where there are two signs that alternate with each other along the route:  Sex Shop and The Bible Saves.  I know that the times that I have overcome my intellectual scruple and bought a lottery ticket I went about in a delirium of expectation in the days remaining before the drawing, so pleasantly anticipating the grand house, the first class accommodation on international flights, grand gifts to my children and good friends.  So I suppose it must be the same for the man anticipating the arrival of a package containing the penis enhancer, envisioning how different he will suddenly appear to his girl friends, and the guys at the gym, or the impotence treatment, same thing.  And they are no different from the pleasing sensations that the thought of a roadside stop at a sex shop can induce in a weary traveler, just as those spiritually tired and heavy laden can imagine that a new and heavenly path will be open to them.  On the other hand, I once knew a fellow when I was a university student, and how I met him I don't know, but he was either recently discharged from the Navy or still on active duty, all I remember was his wearing navy whites whenever we met, or when he had his clothes on.  Other times he was nude, sometimes in the company of several male friends of his, and what was remarkable and I have never forgotten this.  He was well over six feet tall, or maybe that just seemed true to me who was only five eight or nine, and broad of shoulder, handsome, a bold aggressive feel about him, a real guy, for sure.  And, yet, what amazed me was that he had the smallest penis I have ever to this day seen, and still more amazing he seemed indifferent to this, had no hesitation displaying this dramatically miniscule item.  And then there was this with whom I used to swim a kid about two decades younger than myself.  Although he was, as they say, very well endowed, he seemed entirely indifferent or unaware of the package he had on display.  One day throwing caution to the winds I remarked that I wished that I could come out from the showers to the locker room with a similar display, and to my surprise he calmly suggested that I should take the occasion while under the warm water to rub myself ever discreetly so as to produce some engorgement and my goal would be achieved.  Who, I thought to myself, would imagine that he had ever envisioned such a strategy?